


Put Aside Your Doubt

by sophinisba



Category: Lord of the Rings (2001 2002 2003), Lord of the Rings - Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-04-19
Updated: 2008-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-05 21:53:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/46392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/pseuds/sophinisba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>At Henneth Annûn, Frodo wonders whether he should trust a man who reminds him so much of Boromir.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Put Aside Your Doubt

**Author's Note:**

> Written for gentlehobbit for the Frolijah Fic Challenge, spring 2008.

Frodo had consented to the blindfold, for there was not much else he could do. He even put his answer graciously, comparing Faramir and his men to the Elves of Lórien. The Elves had not made prisoners of the hobbits or even the dwarf. Even if Frodo felt like a captive now, stumbling on the rocky path with the hard hands on his shoulders, he would not complain. He sensed Sam wanted to protest but was making himself keep quiet, following Frodo's example.

Despite the roughness, the fear and foreboding, he did his best to imagine they were with the Elves again, being led to a place of beauty where they would be welcomed, honoured, helped – a place, perhaps, where they'd be allowed to rest.

The path dipped and Frodo tripped, but Mablung grabbed him around the arms and pulled him up. The stranger's tight grip hurt, but falling to the ground would have hurt more. Frodo kept himself from crying out.

"Carry them over this next bit," Faramir ordered. "The ground is rough and they will not be able to walk it in their bare feet.

_Our bare feet are perfectly suited for rough ground_, Frodo wanted to say, as Mablung lifted him up. He heard a grunt as Damrod picked up Sam as well. _We would travel this path very well were we not blindfold, weary and half-starved._ But then, that was quite obvious, wasn't it, since they'd come this far on their own? And Frodo was determined not to complain about such trivial things, to save his strength and attention for the discussions that really mattered.

Already in his earlier questioning Faramir had tested Frodo with a shrewdness that reminded him of Gandalf – and not the smiling Gandalf who'd brought joy and fireworks to Frodo's childhood or the kind old friend who'd comforted him in Moria, but Gandalf as he'd appeared at the Council of Elrond, the one who'd faced down Saruman and was not impressed in the least with Boromir son of Denethor.

Boromir, who was now dead, if Faramir and his dreams were to be believed.

Frodo thought of that first meeting, when so many unfamiliar names were being tossed around that he could barely follow the story, let alone know who had the right version. Still, he'd felt uneasy then, had judged Boromir to be proud and rash. On the journey though, he'd been quite kind – friendlier than Aragorn, more plainspoken than Gandalf, more cheerful than any but the hobbits themselves. Many a time he'd carried Frodo and the other hobbits over difficult ground, as the Rangers carried them now, and Frodo had trusted him completely. Frodo had only come to fear Boromir and his touch in the last minutes he'd known him.

"The only plan that is proposed to us is that a halfling should walk blindly into Mordor,*" Boromir had complained then, and despite all his worry and grief Frodo couldn't help laughing to himself now. For here they were, walking and being carried, not only lost but blind, and moving _away_ from their goal.

When the blindfold was taken off at last and Frodo looked around him he was amazed to see that the place where they'd been brought – or at least the first sight they saw there – really was as beautiful as Lothlórien. Faramir acted humble, which made Frodo want to laugh again. He said it was luck that had brought them to the Window on the West just as the West was at its most brilliant, and the sunset made fire, water, and the brightest jewels of the earth shine with one light.

Faramir assured them that no harm would come to them in this place. The precautions they'd taken in bringing the hobbits here were part of a regime of secrecy and helped ensure that no enemy could know of this shelter or reach it. "You may take your rest here," he said, and he guided them to a low bed that was the most comfortable they had lain in since Lórien. Frodo lay down, hearing some talk of black squirrels that made very little sense to him, and before he had time to wonder whether he was dreaming, he _was_.

He woke to the sound of a familiar voice calling to him from outside, and he nearly tripped on his way to the door, so eager was he to see the visitor.

Frodo threw open the door to Bag End and laughed to see Boromir standing on the front porch, dressed in his warrior's armour in the peaceful sunshine of the Shire. He threw open his arms to hug his dear friend. Borormir laughed with him and held him tight enough to lift his feet off the ground, but not to hurt him or take his breath away.

"I'm so glad to see you again," Frodo said. "Sam will be delighted as well. We've missed you, all of you."

"And you hobbits are much missed in Gondor."

"Have you news of Aragorn?"

"He wishes to see you, and asked if you would not come to Minas Tirith with me."

"Oh," said Frodo, "I think I've had enough adventures for a hobbit's lifetime. I prefer to live in my hobbit hole. But you and my other friends are always welcome to visit."

Boromir shook his head and looked grave. "You must come with me," he said.

"I'm sorry," Frodo started to say, looking away for a moment, but when he looked back Boromir's face was transformed, pale but shadowed in the bright sunlight. He looked like a figure made of wax. He reached for Frodo suddenly and caught his ankle.

"Let me go!" Frodo shouted. He tried to squirm away but Boromir's grip was firm – and cold.

"I am slain," said Boromir, his voice sounding far away, "we are all of us slain. You went off with your Sam and the only weapon that could have saved us, and left us to be slaughtered by the orcs and tossed into the river."

"I didn't know," said Frodo, struggling both to get away from the attacker and to keep the terror at bay. Surely it could not be. _All_ of them, slain? If it were true, how had he been so happy a few moments ago? How could the sun still be shining?

"I don't believe you," said Boromir. "You despised me from the first. Of course you wanted me dead. And the Elf and the Dwarf meant little to you. Still, I was surprised at you, Frodo, that you would betray your friend Aragorn and allow your halfling cousins to be hacked to death."

"I didn't –" Frodo tried again. "It was the only thing we could do. Surely if I'd stayed they would have taken us all. The Ring –"

"The Ring," Boromir scoffed. "You only wanted to keep it for yourself. Look, you still carry it."

"No!" Frodo yelled. "It is gone, it is destroyed!" But as Boromir pointed Frodo felt it again, the familiar weight round his neck and the warmth at the centre of his chest. "No," he said again, but weakly this time, pleading.

"I will not let you escape with it again."

Frodo gave up struggling then, for he knew he could not win against Boromir's size and strength. He summoned his will to look into the sunken dark eyes without shivering, and spoke softly. "Will you not put aside your doubt of me and let me go? I am weary, and full of grief, and afraid. But I have a deed to do, or to attempt, before I too am slain.**"

While Frodo had been sitting still Boromir had got a firmer grip on his leg and pinned him down. "No," he said. The hand that dug under Frodo's shirt was clawing and cold next to the Ring, which throbbed hotter every moment.

Before the dead man could take it Frodo slipped it on his finger.

Then, as had happened a few times before, Frodo's vision changed. He knew he could not be seen, but the face gazing down at him was another – not Boromir but his brother Faramir, not dead but only a little tired and angry.

He'd been too slow this time and there was no time to jump over a stone or make any kind of escape. The man still held him down with his full weight, and though he could not see Frodo he felt his along his body until he folded his great hands over Frodo's small ones. He grinned with triumph and spoke in a low voice, "Curse you and all halflings to death and darkness,*" as he pulled the Ring from Frodo's finger.

Once he had it he stood up and Frodo was finally able to scramble away. Instinct let him to flee up the slope to the top of the hill, just as he had gone before to the top of Amon Hen. But this time he could see nothing below, not the familiar lands of his home, not even Faramir himself, only the utter darkness to which he had been condemned.

Just as Frodo was about to cry out he heard Sam's voice, saying, "They've lit a few of the torches. They're about to take us to supper, it seems. Have you been able to take some rest, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo heard the sound of falling water and blinked in the dim light of the cave. Since he had dreamt many dreams worse than this in the past months, he was able to make himself sit up and stretch and yawn before lying calmly, "Yes, it may have been brief but I slept soundly. They are good hosts, these Rangers of Ithilien."

But that turned out to be the truth. The meal of herbs and stewed rabbit that afternoon had seemed quite a feast at the time, but it was poor indeed when compared with the rich foods Faramir shared with them. A small suspicious voice in Frodo's mind told him the wine was only to loosen his tongue for the next round of interrogation but the voice sounded like Sméagol and so Frodo was able to ignore. He and Sam ate and drank their fill, and when Faramir took them aside for more conversation afterwards it was just that. He asked questions about their journey but allowed Frodo to answer as he would rather than press him for anything, even the reason for their quest.

Later, when Sam asked Faramir about the Elves, Frodo allowed his thoughts to wander back to the dream. Silly, he thought, to have dreamed he'd end up back at Bag End, smiling in the sunshine. Better to accept the much greater chance that he'd die before the end, and concentrate on accomplishing his task first. But what was the best way to do that? he wondered, studying Faramir's face more than his words as he and Sam conversed. Was this man to be trusted? Should Frodo confess to him the secret he had held on to for so long? Should he take his food and drink and rest in his refuge, but tell him nothing? Once again Frodo thought of his last meeting with Boromir, and the warning in his heart that told him not to tarry in this beautiful cave.

And then Sam made the decision for him – or made the slip for him, since Sam had no more _decided_ to speak of the Ring than Frodo decided to cry out in shock when he heard it.

That seemed to be the end, for Faramir's smile and the glint in his eye as he spoke of the answer to all the riddles made Frodo see his face and Boromir's at the same time, like faint images laid over each other, and it frightened him more than anything in his dream. Frodo felt foolish, fumbling for his little sword when surrounded by so many men who would do whatever Faramir commanded.

But then the moment of danger passed, as suddenly as it had come, and Frodo knew Faramir was speaking but he couldn't understand the words. He felt himself trembling but couldn't make himself stop. Knew he was saying more than he should, much more than Sam had, but he couldn't make himself quiet. He didn't decide to reveal they were going to Mordor any more than he decided to fall swooning into Faramir's arms.

Frodo sat in the darkness, weeping softly. All his friends were lost, and for what? He had not been strong or clever enough to keep it secret and safe.

He heard heavy steps behind him and tried to shrink away, but he couldn't see to move, so he stayed still and let the man sit down next to him and put an arm around his shoulders. He was feeling his way – he must not see any more than Frodo did – but as Frodo felt his touch he started to see something: a warm, glimmering light in front of him.

"You have not failed, Frodo," Faramir said. He gently laid his large hands over Frodo's smaller ones, and then Frodo felt it, the perfect smoothness of it back in his hand, where it belonged and did not, where he most wanted it to be and where he most dreaded it.

"I do not want it," Frodo said, "not for myself."

"I know," Faramir answered.

Frodo cried some more and Faramir held him, not moving or speaking. When Frodo dried his tears he realised that he could see better now, between the glow of the Ring in his open hands and the light of torches on the wall. For he was not back in the Shire, as he would have wished for a dream with a happy ending, but still at Henneth Annûn, and that was all right. He could have moved away, but he stayed there in Faramir's embrace, feeling warm and protected.

"I know you are not real," Frodo said, "but I know that you are true. Does that make sense?" He felt Faramir nod his head. "I will not doubt you anymore."

So they sat for hours, and though the real Faramir woke him before dawn, it was still the most restful night's sleep Frodo had on all that last part of the journey. Whenever he thought back to their night at Henneth Annûn his dearest memory was not the beauty of the waterfall or the richness of the food or Faramir's refusal to take the Ring. It was the long silence of his peaceful dream, the comfort in the circle of Faramir's arms.

  
  
*Quotes from _The Fellowship of the Ring_, "The Breaking of the Fellowship"  
**Requested quote from _The Two Towers_, "The Window on the West"


End file.
